


Bound/Release

by pettifogger



Series: Vienna's Mando Oneshots [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Cunnilingus, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, Din Djarin getting lovingly and tenderly dommed, Din is switch, Established Relationship, Extremely soft dom Din Djarin, F/M, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Restraints, So is the reader, this fic has it all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:49:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29624448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettifogger/pseuds/pettifogger
Summary: The metal was cold in your hands but the Mandalorian’s hands were so warm. He was saying words, but you weren’t hearing them. He was explaining how the hinges work, the clasp, the release, but the words and phrases refused to come together as sentences into your brain. You were too caught up in the way he wrapped his fingers around yours to show you what buttons to press and how to clip the clasp together.He said something to you and it took you a second and a half to process the way his voice lifted up at the end. He asked you a question, you think.“Huh?”or: Din asks you to put away his binders after a hunt, but you can’t stop thinking about what else they might be useful for.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Series: Vienna's Mando Oneshots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2202585
Comments: 11
Kudos: 161





	1. Bound

Your arms ache, your thighs are shaking, your throat is raw from use, and you’ve never felt better. With your arms stretched above your head and held fast with the Mandalorian’s binders, and said Mandalorian on his knees between your legs, all you can think—albeit blearily—is that you’ll never ask for more than this. 

☆

_“Here,” Din said, gruff as usual. “Deal with these.”_

_The binders landed in your hands, metal cold and stained with dirt and grease. You didn’t know what_ deal with them _means, but you looked at the Mandalorian wrestling with the furious quarry in his grip and decided he’s probably too busy to answer any questions._

 _Instead, you just nodded and ducked out of the room. You turned the binders over and over in your hands on your way to the_ Crest _’s armory._

☆

Din takes his time getting you ready. He fiddles with the binders for far longer than you’d like. You sit impatiently on the edge of his cot, pouting slightly. Your clothes are on the floor and your hands are secure; isn’t that enough?

No: first he has to check that they’re not too tight or too loose. He makes you hold your hands out in front of you while he adjusts the binders, fingers lingering on your wrists long enough for you to start to fidget and tighten your thighs together. It’s all you can do to soothe the ache growing inside you, considering Din’s more preoccupied with your wrists than the rest of you. 

He notices, of course, and glances up at you. A smile spreads across his face as he watches you bite your lip and try to keep still. The way his brown eyes sparkle with amusement at your impatience makes your stomach flutter. He has trouble written all over his face. 

When he’s finally satisfied with the fit of the binders, Din looks up at you again. He holds your bound hands in his free ones, rubbing circles on your palms with his thumbs. 

“What are you going to say if you want me to stop?” 

“Tatooine,” you tell him. The word you decided on beforehand—and the place you met. Chosen for sentimental reasons, of course. “I’ll say Tatooine if I want you to stop.”

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice as warm as his hands. His eyes meet yours. “Well, sweet girl, what do you want next?”

☆

 _You asked him how the binders work. Maybe that wasn’t smart; maybe that was playing with fire. You didn’t really care, though. You were caught up on them. They made you curious: how do they work? How often does the Mandalorian use them? Does he always carry them around? Do they have any_ other _uses besides restraining rowdy bounties?_

_He just tilted his head at you. “What?”_

_“The binders,” you said, hesitating. A sudden shyness washes over you. “Can you show me how they work?”_

_He turned around to face you, the black slit of his visor pinning you to the co-pilot’s chair. “Why do you want to know how they work?”_

_“Dunno,” you shrug, ignoring the heat rising on your face. “Just curious.”_

_“Okay,” he says, after a long pause. “Go get them.”_

☆

It’s too hard to explain what you want; the words stick in your throat. 

You want so _much_. You trust him with everything and you want him to take control, do what he wants with you, make it so you don’t have to think and all you have to do is _feel_. 

As for the specifics, you don’t know; this fantasy played out in your head in snapshots, blurry on the edges. Do you want his hands or his mouth or more? You don’t know, nor do you particularly care. You just want _him_. All of him, all of his intensity and his strength and his power. You want all of that focused on _you_. You want him to take what he wants and to give you everything until you’re shaking with need and begging for release. And you want your hands out of the way so there’s no temptation for you to try and wrest back control. 

You try to tell him that and watch his eyes go dark as you stutter your way through an explanation. The expression on his face, all feral hunger and possessiveness, knocks the air right out of your lungs. 

“Whatever you want,” you tell him, breathless. “Do whatever you want. I just want you.” 

He stands then, looming over you. You lean back instinctively, looking up at the way the dim light behind him turns his dark curls into an inverse halo. He crowds into your space, fitting himself between your thighs, curling his hand under your chin to tilt your face up.

“Lay down,” he murmurs. “Hands over your head.” 

Oh, _fuck_. The low rasp of his voice betrays his calm demeanour; you feel his desire like humidity, filling the room and raising the temperature and making you melt from the inside out. You do as instructed. 

His turn. And you’ll take whatever he gives. 

☆

 _The metal was cold in your hands but the Mandalorian’s hands were so_ warm _. He was saying words, but you weren’t hearing them. He was explaining how the hinges work, the clasp, the release, but the words and phrases refused to come together as sentences into your brain. You were too caught up in the way he wrapped his fingers around yours to show you what buttons to press and how to clip the clasp together._

_He said something to you and it took you a second and a half to process the way his voice lifted up at the end. He asked you a question, you think._

_“Huh?”_

_He tilted his head at you and your face just got hotter. You thought he might be annoyed that you weren’t paying attention to his explanation, but you hear affection in his tone when he speaks again._

_“Do you want to try them?”_

☆

Din’s mouth is _unbelievable_. It’s like you forget how good he is with his tongue every time and only remember when he’s touching you again. It’s overwhelming, the way he buries his head between your legs and licks at you like he can’t get enough of your taste. You want to grab his hair and rock your hips against his face but you _can’t._ Your hands are bound above your head and he holds you down with one arm thrown across your stomach. All you can do is whine and toss your head and beg him for more.

“Please, Din.” You hear your own voice breathless and echoing in the tiny alcove. “Please, please, _please_.” 

He groans into you. It’s a low sound that rumbles through your nerves and makes you cry out. He looks up at you, eyes shaded by his messy hair and face wet with your slick. 

“Please _what?_ ” He runs his free hand down your leg, curling around your calf, squeezing. “What do you want?”

“More,” you gasp. “I d-don’t care, more, please. I feel so empty. Give me more. _Please_.” 

His hand slides back up your leg, settling on the inside of your thigh, pushing your legs further apart. He runs his fingers through the wetness between your legs, parting your folds and teasing you. Always with the teasing; Din thrives on it, lives for the feeling of turning you on with a subtle touch or a specific phrase and letting you work yourself up until you can’t wait anymore.

“Please, Din—”

You cut yourself off with a gasp as he slides a thick finger inside you. This is when you’d normally grab for his hair or his shoulders but you _can’t_. The binders are so fucking heavy; you couldn’t lift your hands if you wanted to. Instead, you just gasp and curse as he stretches you, first with one finger, then two, then puts his mouth back on you. 

Then you can’t remember any words at all. 

☆

_He let you try the binders on him first. He slipped his gloves off to let you put them on. They were a bit too small for him, but he patiently showed you how to lock them anyway. You didn’t want to admit how flustered that made you feel, looking at him with his wrists bound in front of him. You could swear his pulse picked up under your fingers too, but you don’t mention it._

_Then it was your turn._

_He turned your wrists to face each other, his thumbs brushing over your veins. Your breath caught in your throat as he held both your wrists in one hand, using his free hand to fit the binders and close them. Gentle. Slow. Explaining it the whole while. Your heart pounded in your chest, so loud you swear he can hear it too. He was literally cuffing your hands together like he would a quarry, but you couldn’t imagine a gentler touch._

See? _he said, as he closed them._ Simple.

 _Nothing about it was simple. Not the calluses of his palms, rough on your hands; not that soft tone he uses when he explains things to you; not the way you wanted to see what he would do if you kept them on. You wanted more of that. You wanted more of that slow, steady calm; you like it when he says a few words in that brassy voice and makes you flustered beyond belief. The way he makes you forget how to talk with just the slightest inflection and slightest gestures is downright indecent. You want more of it. You_ need _it._

Simple, _you said back, even though it’s not._

☆

“I’m gonna—oh, fuck, gonna come, Din,” you slur. Your arms are fucking _aching_ from holding them above your head and the need inside you is spreading like wildfire through your stomach and your hips. He’s still lavishing attention on you, licking and sucking punctuated with low moans and curses that drive you _wild_. His free hand has found your hip, fingers kneading your soft skin at the same time he holds you down. 

“I’m gonna _come_ ,” you whine, louder this time. 

Din stands up all of a sudden, pushing your legs off his shoulders and keeping his hand between your legs. You whine at the loss of his hot mouth on you, but he presses the heel of his hand down on your clit and you gasp. 

“Din, what—”

“Want to watch you come, sweet girl.” His voice is rough as stone; it’s raspy from all the noises he made as he teased you. That’s what he gets for being so fucking _loud_ in bed. His gaze falls down your body, taking in the sweat on your face, the way your mouth hangs open on a gasp, the movement of your chest with your heaving breaths, his fingers disappearing in the soft skin between your legs. 

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he growls, “all spread out for me. Begging for it.”

“All for you.” You nod, frantic, far past reason. You can’t focus, all your attention torn between the painful ache in your arms and the sweet ache building in the pit of your stomach. “I need you. _Please_ —fuck, Din, please fuck me. Need you so _bad_.” 

Din hooks his fingers, that come-hither motion that hits the sweet spot inside you, and you _whine_. Your back arches and your hands come up off the bed, just far enough to fall back down with a metallic _clank_ as the binders land on the cot. 

“Come for me first, then you can have whatever you want.” 

Your face feels wet and you don’t know if it’s sweat or tears. It’s too much. He’s too much. There’s no thoughts left in your head, just _want_ and _need_ and _more_ and _Din_. 

“That’s it,” he says, as he feels you start to tighten around his fingers. “ _Good_.” He presses his palm down harder. “Come for me, sweet girl.”

All it takes is his word, and you’re falling apart for him. Your thoughts scatter into stardust and you think you’re crying out but all you really know is that he stays right where he is, guiding you through it. 

☆

He slips the binders off your wrists in a quick, fluid motion. They join the pile of metal and clothes on the floor, landing with a thud on top of Din’s discarded armor. He pulls you up into a sitting position and tugs you towards the edge of the bed. His chest is so warm as he wraps his arms around you. Your face fits perfectly in the crook of his neck; you’re practically boneless as you melt into him.

It’s hot in the alcove, but that might just be the flush that’s spread through your entire body. All you can hear is the sound of your breathing syncing with his. Even the low whirr of the _Crest_ in space is dimmed by the blood still rushing in your ears. Din holds you for a long time, just standing between your legs, his arms the only thing holding you up. 

After a long moment, he loosens his grip on you. His hands find your arms, turning them over so he can see them in the dim light of the alcove. He rubs his thumb over the place the binders were—such a soft touch in comparison to the metal. The cuffs left no marks, but he inspects your arms and massages your wrists all the same. 

“Are you okay?” There’s genuine concern in his voice. It’s sweet. 

You open your mouth to tell him _yes_ , but your throat is raw. Instead of words, all that comes out is a froggy croak. Din’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair. You let out an equally froggy laugh in response and, before you know it, you’re both laughing. 

“Yeah,” you rasp, still giggling. “That was—good. Really, really good.” 

Din’s surprised face softens into a smile and he lets you melt into his arms again. He’s doing an impressive job of pretending that he’s not hard as durasteel against your stomach. Such a gentlemen, perfectly content to fuck you brainless with his mouth and his hands and then hold you and not ask for anything in return. You’ll give him something in return, of course, but you need to remember things first, like your name and what day it is and how your hands work. 

After all, he gave you everything you wanted. Now it’s just a matter of what _he_ wants. 

Over his shoulder, you see the binders glinting dully on top of the stack of beskar and coarseweave clothing. You remember the way Din’s breath hitched yesterday when you clipped the binders around his wrists. The way his pulse fluttered under your fingers as you pushed his sleeve up to make room for the metal cuffs. A thought starts to form in your hazy mind. 

Slowly, with shaky arms, you push yourself off Din’s chest. You nod in the direction of the abandoned cuffs.

“I have an idea.”

Din’s eyes light up with that mischievous look again.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Let’s hear it.” 


	2. Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Let go.” Your voice is low and soft, slipping like silk down the Mandalorian’s spine. His bare skin pebbles in the cold air of the cockpit._  
>   
>  _Din shivers again as you kiss his neck. Your tongue laves over his pulse, relentless, pausing only to murmur in his ear. His hands curl around the arms of the captain’s chair so hard his knuckles turn pale._  
>   
>  _“It’s fine,” you murmur, nosing his ear. “I want you to, Din. Let go.”_  
>   
>  or: the follow-up to Bound, but it's not the reader in binders this time

“Let go.” Your voice is low and soft, slipping like silk down the Mandalorian’s spine. His bare skin pebbles in the cold air of the cockpit.

Din shivers again as you kiss his neck. Your tongue laves over his pulse, relentless, pausing only to murmur in his ear. His hands curl around the arms of the captain’s chair so hard his knuckles turn pale.

His self-control is fraying and the metal wrapped around his wrists suddenly feels like a blessing. The binders pinch a little and it feels wrong to be restrained like a quarry, but he’s grateful for them all the same. With his hands out of the way, he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally hurting you. You’re completely in control: with his hands bound to the arms of his chair and the weight of your body on his thighs, there’s no doubting that.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, nosing his ear. “I want you to, Din. _Let go_.” 

☆

It started earlier. The Mandalorian heard you approach before you entered his field of vision; even with bare feet, your footsteps were audible in the quiet of the cockpit. He turned to face you and stopped, his breath catching in his throat. Starlight streamed in through the viewport, illuminating your face in a soft glow and revealing that the only real clothing you were wearing was one of his sleep shirts. 

Sometimes he thinks you’re trying to make him lose his mind. You can’t just do that, show up while he’s flying, wearing his clothes, looking radiant in the low light of space. A smile spread across your face when you realized his long silence didn’t mean he was angry—just unsure what to say. Tongue-tied, short-circuiting under the helmet. It’s endearing. 

Slowly, you crossed the room and lowered yourself into his lap. The captain’s chair isn’t meant for two, so you ended up with your knees pressed tight on either side of his hips and your weight on his thighs pinning him in place. He tried not to look at your bare legs—soft and warm and so tempting—and failed. He wanted to bite you there, leave marks on your skin, claim you as his. The possessive impulse flared up so fast it startled him.

“‘m flying,” he groused. It’s an incredibly weak protest and he knew it.

“Hm.” You turned around and looked at the empty field of space outside the ship. You’re a half-decent pilot, good enough to know when the _Crest_ is flying and when it’s just gliding. “Sure.”

You didn’t believe him, but you don’t push it if he’s not in the mood. You shifted to get out of his lap but Din’s hands found your waist. You gave him a pointed look, eyebrows raised at the way his fingers dug into your hips. 

“Thought you were flying.”

“We won’t crash.”

☆

_The truth is, the Mandalorian knows a lot of things._

_He knows how to hunt, for one. He knows how the whites of a quarry’s eyes widen in the moment before they decide whether to fight or to run, and he knows how to predict which one they’ll attempt by their next breath. He knows how to kill, for another. If you asked, he could tell you the points of the body on more than three dozen species that lead to immediate incapacitation when struck. And he could tell you where the heart is located in three dozen more._

_He knows a lot of things. Most of these things make him incredibly dangerous. But you—this unnameable thing between the two of you—has exposed exactly how much he_ doesn’t _know. The Mandalorian’s instincts are useful for tracking down bounties and dragging them to the Guild; he’s got nothing when it comes to being with you. When you’re together—in his tiny metal cot, on your bedroll, in the ‘fresher, in the cockpit, anywhere and everywhere he can have you—he has to wait for you to tell him where he should touch you and what he should say. His body is a tool built for hunting and killing; his mind is a machine trained for the same. He has no skill for affection, for intimacy._

_If it was up to him, if he just let go and let his instincts kick in—well, who knows what he would do? A hunter giving over to his base nature—he doesn’t want to see that. And he certainly doesn’t want to unleash that on you._

☆

Your hands creep up to the edge of Din’s helmet. A familiar nervous feeling thrills through him. This won’t be the first time you’ve seen his face, far from it, but it still feels—unnatural. Odd. Wrong, but in a way that makes heat flare in the pit of his stomach and makes him want _more_. 

The problem: when the helmet is off, his face is just one more thing he has to control. But you’re you, and he’s him, and he can’t deny you anything you want. 

Seconds later, the helmet is on the floor and you’re on him. Your hands find his face, cupping his cheeks and stroking his jaw where his stubble is sparse. You kiss him, hungry and eager, and when you shift in his lap he suddenly remembers that you’re half-naked on top of him. His hand bunches your shirt— _his_ shirt—at your hip and the fabric rides up, the edge of your underwear just visible. He breaks the kiss and his expression goes from stunned to starving in an instant.

Animalistic desire flares up in the pit of his stomach, the feral instinct that he tries to suppress. He flexes his hand on your waist to keep himself from picking you up and laying you flat against the control console and fucking you hard and rough. It almost scares him, how quickly he shifts from hesitation to uncontrollable hunger. His pulse slams in his chest and his jaw tight with the effort of staying in control.

Your hand is under his chin, forcing his face up to meet your gaze. He wants to look away; if he looks at you too long, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. His grip on his self-control is too shaky. What if he snaps? What if he touches you too hard, too rough? What if he hurts you? What if—

“Din.” Your voice is soft but firm. Your hand on his face grounds him. “Do you want me to stop?”

He grunts and covers his face with his hands. It’s too much—the warm weight of you in his lap, the heat radiating from your core, the blood rushing in his ears, your gaze burning through him. His thoughts ricochet around in his head like shrapnel. 

Gently, your fingers wrap around his wrists. His skin prickles at the contact. For being so damn pretty, you’re tough, too; your grip on him is hard enough that it becomes the only thing he can focus on. Slowly, all the rest of it—the guilt, the panic, all of it—fades. All that’s left is you perched in his lap, smiling softly at him with fingers wrapped tight around his wrists.

He stares at your hands like you’ve worked some kind of magic. You watch his expression slip back into the naked hunger from before. An idea starts to form in your head and you wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.

“Hey,” you say, hands still on his, “I have an idea.”

☆

_The difference between hunting and making love is that the Mandalorian doesn’t have to think when he hunts. Well, there are a few other differences, but that one feels most pressing._

_Hunting is what he was made for; he doesn’t have to think before drawing his blaster or lining up a shot. Muscle memory, that’s what it is. But when it comes to you—he’s_ always _thinking. Constantly. He doesn’t exactly spend time with other people very often, and it’s not like he and the kid have lengthy conversations. You, though—you’re always around, always laughing and smiling and playing with the kid and playing with Din’s hair when you’re alone. Always making him feel things he’s never felt, make him want things he’s never wanted._

 _You always seem to know what to do and what to say. Love is your most basic instinct. Loving him, loving the kid, loving the_ Crest _, loving space and the stars—it’s what you do best. Din doesn’t know how you do it so easily and so thoughtlessly. For him, the only time he isn’t thinking too hard is when he’s inside you, half out of his mind and distracted by how good you feel, but even then there’s something in the back of his mind telling him to keep it together or he’ll hurt you by accident._

_So he lets you take the lead and tries not to get too lost in you. It’s better that way. For both of you._

☆

“You’re lucky you have more than one pair,” you murmur, hands busy. One set of binders is wrapped around Din’s right wrist, holding it down to the right arm of the captain’s chair; you’re busy fastening the other the same way. You knelt between his legs to get a closer look at the binders and you’re biting your lip in concentration. 

Din is paying no mind to what you’re doing. He’s just staring at your mouth. 

“Looks good,” you announce, and look up. 

Din’s ears turn red when he realizes you’ve caught him staring. He drags his gaze up to meet your eyes. He doesn’t miss the mischievous look on your face. 

“See something you like?”

He nods, dumbly, and waits for you to sit up and kiss him. Instead, your hands just settle on his knees, sliding slowly up his thighs. You linger there, fingers digging into his skin through his pants.

“Tell me what you’re going to say if you want me to stop,” you instruct. 

In that moment, he realizes that you’re _actually_ doing this. Brief panic flutters in his chest: have you both lost your minds? How is this _possibly_ a good idea? How is _this_ what you want? It feels wrong; he should be the one taking care of you. That’s how this works.

“Din?” Your voice is soft and hesitant. “Do you still want to try this?”

He shifts his hands and feels the metal tight around his wrists. He feels heat flare in the pit of his stomach at the vulnerability of it: his arms tied down, his legs spread, your hands on his thighs. 

“Yes.” His voice is already raspy.

“Okay.” You smile at him, entirely too sweet for what you’re doing to him. Your hands creep further up his thighs, close to the fastening of his pants. “What are you going to say if you want me to stop?”

“Tatooine.”

“Good. Ready?”

He nods. You set to work.

☆

_Once, and only once, you looked at the Mandalorian with fear in your eyes. It was on Tatooine, right after you met him. You saw him take down a bounty with lightning speed; you smelled the burnt-meat odor of a blaster bolt rending flesh and watched him drag the corpse like a sack of scrap parts to his ship. You’ll never forget the sight of blood on the sand, red like wine and shiny like a mirror._

_But you aren’t scared of him, not anymore. He and his little green son welcomed you onto the ship and you don’t have anything to fear, not with Din protecting you. He’s more than a hunter; you know that now. He’s shown you that again and again, with surprising acts of devotion for your clan of three, with every soft word and gentle touch he gives you. He’s proven that he’ll never hurt you, over and over—no matter how much he worries that he will._

_Maybe like this, he’ll finally stop worrying about hurting you. Maybe restraint is the way to finally let him let go. That’s all you want, really; you want him to give you everything he has, no hesitation._

☆

“Fuck,” Din grits out. His hands curl around the arms of the chair, fingers clawing at the metal. “ _Fuck._ ” 

Your lips slide off his length with a filthy _pop_ and you wipe your mouth with your free hand. Your lips are so full and red and shiny with spit. He groans at the sight and you squeeze him tight in your other hand.

“That’s it,” you tell him, and he feels like he’s burning up inside. You glance up at him through your lashes, looking so fucking _sweet_ as you take him back in your mouth. And _stars_ , your mouth is perfect: hot and wet and soft, the best thing he’s ever felt. His thoughts start to blur together and he’s rambling before he knows it.

“So fuckin’ good,” he slurs, “You feel so—fuck, oh, _shit—_ good. So fucking pretty, on your knees— _f-fuck_ —for _me_...” 

Your eyes glint with amusement when you look up at him. He’s a mess and he knows it. His hair hangs down over his face, curls lank with sweat. His lips are red and full from kissing you. He’s almost where you want him, but not quite. You can still feel the tension in his body; you can see it in the way he’s clenching his jaw tight. He’s still holding back. 

“Come on, Din,” you tell him, a repetition of earlier. “Let go. You can do it.”

You duck your head again, ignoring the dull ache in your jaw and taking as much of him as you can. He groans and his hips jerk forward. He starts to stutter an apology, heels scraping across the floor in an attempt to move back, and stops when he realizes that the noise you just made wasn’t a protest—it was a _moan_. 

“ _Fuck_.” His head hits the headrest behind him, his eyes falling shut. His Adam’s apple bobs as he gasps. “Can I—oh, _shit_ —can I—”

“Yes.” You come up just long enough to give him permission. “Whatever you want. Come on, Din, give it to me.”

He lets out a noise like he’s been punched in the stomach and sinks down in the chair just far enough to move his hips. It’s a shallow angle, but it’s enough to make your jaw ache. You take it, though; he starts to rock his hips and you take everything he gives you. 

When he finally opens his eyes, he looks down, and—oh, _fuck_. It’s too much; you look even better than he could have imagined. Your eyes meet his before his gaze falls down to the swell of your breasts in the borrowed shirt, half-unbuttoned. Then he looks lower, where he sees your free hand disappear under your clothes to touch yourself over your underwear.

He moans your name like a prayer. 

_Fuck_. It’s too hot in here. He can’t think. Not with you looking like that. Not when he knows how wet you are, hand between your legs, touching yourself while he fucks your mouth. It’s every filthy, awful fantasy he’s had about you coming to life, and you want it just as badly as he does. He jerks his hips again, too hard, hitting the back of your throat, and instead of crying out you moan around him. His arms strain against the binders and the metal bites into his wrists. The pinpoint of pain, so bright and sharp in contrast the soft heat of your mouth, undoes him. 

“‘m gonna—oh, _fuck_ , gonna _come._ Wanna come in your m-mouth, _please—_ ”

Before he can finish his sentence, he does. His legs tense around your body and his heels scrabble on the floor as the tension in his stomach and hips snaps and releases. Nothing matters to him then, nothing but you, your mouth, and the liquid heat spreading through his body. 

☆

Din’s wrists are rubbed raw when you finally get the binders off. You offer to find bandages for him but he completely ignores you, instead hauling you up into his lap. His hands are a little shaky on your face as he drags you in for a kiss. You’re rewarded with a groan when he tastes himself on your tongue. 

You push away from him gently, palms flat on his chest, and study his face. His eyes are glassy and his cheeks are flushed but he looks—good. Content. Happy, even. With the worry gone from his face, he looks younger. His messy hair curling over his brow and his pouty lower lip definitely add to the effect. 

Bringing his hands up to your lips, you press soft kisses to the marks left by the binders. “Are you okay?”

He nods. 

“Was that good?"

He nods again.

“Are you gonna say anything?”

Your wry tone pulls a laugh from him. He rests his forehead against yours and you feel his breath warm on your face. 

“Gotta remember words first,” he murmurs. Those deep brown eyes are so soft as he watches you kiss his wrists and his knuckles before turning his hands over to press a kiss to each palm. “That was—good. Yeah. That was good."

He’s a man of few words, but he means it. With the weight of the binders lifted and you in his lap, he feels nothing but calm. It washes over him like a slow-moving wave, pulling him under. That might also be exhaustion. You might be young and energetic, but he’s older than you, and you worked him half out of his mind tonight. Fuck, his eyelids feel heavy. His head falls back against the headrest and he lets out a sigh without willing it. 

Your laugh is soft and sweet in the quiet of the cockpit. You wrap one of his curls around your finger, twirling it before brushing it away from his face. “Maybe we should do this more often,” you hum, tracing your fingertip down the bridge of his nose. 

“Mm,” he mumbles. He cracks his eyes open, looking at your face outlined in starlight. “Gonna kill me, pretty girl.”

You ignore him and he lets you squeeze as close to him as you can in this chair meant for one. Your head comes to rest on his shoulder and he loops his arms around your waist, holding you tight to him. He jolts when you sneak your freezing hands under his shirt, spreading them out on his sides. 

You’re a menace and you know it. But he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://letterfromvienna.tumblr.com/) xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://letterfromvienna.tumblr.com/) xoxo


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